


Before There Was Monster Hunting

by EdgarAllenPoet



Series: Whumptober 2019 [5]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Amnesty, Bigfoot - Freeform, Character Study, Gen, Gun Violence, Homelessness, Mugging, Pre-Canon, Shoplifting, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 01:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: “Oh right, of course, let me explain,” the stranger had said, before pulling off a pair of glasses and unfurling his wings to the wind.  The Seer, the first banished, exiled when Barclay was just a kid, but of course he knew about him.  Indrid Cold was used as a warning to them.  Be good, keep your head down, or you’ll end up like him.





	Before There Was Monster Hunting

**Author's Note:**

> whumptober prompts 5 and 6!! gunpoint and dragged away
> 
> you can read this as Indrid/Barclay or whatever the kids are calling it if you want to.
> 
> EDIT: not sure how I feel about this after listening to The Ballad of Bigfoot (10/18/19), but we're keeping it as-is for now. fuck the timeline.

The gate moved every few decades or so.

When Barclay had first come through, he’d stuck close to the gate, to the places the energy leaked out, doing his best to soak up as much as he could and keep himself going. Sylvans died out here, they’d warned. He’d been given a death sentence. Get out, stay out, and good luck. 

He spent those first few years in a blur, trying to stay alive and functional and hidden, observing any humans he came across and trying to figure out what on Earth to do with himself. He couldn’t fit in, he couldn’t get too close. They almost found him a few times, tried to shoot him and capture him and get too close to him, but he ran and hid and kept himself safe, kept himself alive. Earth was hell. 

And then the gate moved. 

He’d panicked, at first, wandering aimlessly and deliriously until he came upon someone. Someone gaunt and wiry, who observed him with eyes that were curious but not in the human way he was used to. 

“Come on in,” they told him, and he’d thought, _as if. No way in hell_. 

“Oh right, of course, let me explain,” the stranger had said, before pulling off a pair of glasses and unfurling his wings to the wind. The Seer, the first banished, exiled when Barclay was just a kid, but of course he knew about him. Indrid Cold was used as a warning to them. Be good, keep your head down, or you’ll end up like him. 

You’ll _die_ out there. 

Indrid Cold, alive and in the flesh. 

“How are you--” 

“--Still alive, yes, well. It seems the courts don’t know _everything, _now do they.” 

“But you--” 

“--Look human, yes. Come on inside and let me see what we can do for you. You’ll _never_ blend in looking like that, now, will you?” 

The trailer he lived in was shiny and new, recently bought he explained. The glint in his teeth suggested that “bought” actually meant “stolen.” You died in prison for offenses like that back home. Pretty soon, Barclay was sure, that crime would be punishable by exile. 

The trailer had pale yellow carpeting and a bed and a tiny kitchen. It creaked and shifted under Barclay’s feet-- not Indrid’s, as he’d replaced his glasses and morphed back human before attempting to fit his massive form inside. Barclay bumped his head on the ceiling. 

“Thirsty?” he asked. “Hungry?” 

Barclay was always hungry. You couldn’t be anything _but_ hungry when lacking exposure to the light of Sylvain’s power. Food would do little for him at this point-- he could eat and eat and always be starving. Drink and drink and always thirst. 

He shrugged. “Sure.” 

Indrid dug around in a cupboard above the sink and unearthed a blue and red box. It read “Cracker Jack.” It squeaked under his teeth and made them ache, too sweet. 

“It’s an acquired taste,” Indrid said. “Now let me see what we can do for you.” 

Barclay left Indrid Cold with a woven bracelet tied around his wrist, one component a thin piece of fabric torn from clothing from Sylvain, old traditional court robes of the Seer. Indrid kept the garment stuffed in a box under his bed, with dirty shoes and jars of mud that Barclay didn’t feel inclined to ask about. 

“Well, aren’t you handsome. You wear something from our world, it keeps you from going insane in this one. It might work the opposite way as well, I’m not sure yet. It’s been quite a long time since we’ve seen humans over there.” 

“They broke--” 

“--The crystal, right. That would have been before your time, wouldn’t it? You’re awfully young to be committing war crimes, what did they out you for anyways?” 

“I have to go.” 

Indrid gave him two pieces of advice as he left, the first being, “Head due south, the gate isn’t far from here, just across state lines,” and the second being, “Find a shard of the crystal if you want to make your life easier.” 

Both words of advice were puzzling in their own way. State lines? Due south? Barclay headed the way Indrid pointed. Where was he supposed to find a shard of the crystal anyways? Just sitting on the bed of a river bank? Being displayed on a temple in town? 

He found the gate first, and he stuck close, set up camp. It was easier now, with a human body, to move around undetected, but there were still troubles. He walked miles and miles to civilization just to find himself lost. The people were different, customs different, manners different, money different. He wandered through a small shop of provisions and found himself ousted, an angry little man saying he _could buy something or leave, what was he, dim or something? _

Barclay didn’t have any money, or any way of getting it, so he did the next best thing: he stole. 

Even as a human he had long, strong legs and an intimidating frame. There were others his size, but still plenty that he towered over. Barclay stole things covertly, slipping items into pockets and under his waist band, pulling the tag off of a shirt before slipping it on. He stole something larger by just grabbing it and running, the furious store owner screaming and chasing after him with no hope of catching up. He let his feet pound against the pavement as he sprinted with all of his might through the town and into the woods, up the mountain, and towards the gate. 

There he found his campsite and set up shop, warm for the first time as he wrapped himself up in his blanket and fell sound asleep in the dirt. 

Stealing from campsites was easier, as they were out of the way and often poorly guarded. He spent his days hiking through the woods, staying close enough to the gate that he could turn back before exhaustion got the better of him. He acquired a canvas sack-- which proved heavenly for hauling his few items around, now he no longer had to worry about his own campsite being raided while he raided someone else’s-- and a small hand axe, a knife, a small pot for cooking, and during his best haul: a tend and a small purse of what _had_ to be money. 

He had money. Things were looking up. 

Someone in town directed him to a building down the road. Barclay found a homeless shelter, he found food. One day he returned to the shelter to find a note tacked to his cot. “Head to Georgia, take the train. I’m going North” was all it said. Under his pillow was a small, jagged orange rock. Just seeing it, feeling its presence, was enough to move him to tears. He found a leather cord and wrapped it tight, tied it around his neck and kept it close. 

“What’s Georgia?” he asked someone. 

“A state,” they said. “It’s a state in the south.” 

“A state?”

“A place you are. Part of the country. You’re in California now, Georgia’s another one.” 

He headed to Georgia. It was big, full of rolling green hills and people that talked different than they had where he was before. He found the gate like he always did, found a place to stay and even friends. He found himself comfortable. 

Sometimes he still took to the woods, following the glowing light of the crystal, just to get close to the gate. Just to feel the warmth, the nostalgia, the _rage_ that came from missing home. 

Sometimes he just sat and leaned against is and cried. 

Having the crystal made it better, though. He didn’t starve, didn’t feel feral. He could think and talk and focus. He ate real food and felt something from it. He felt Sylvain thrum against his sternum, where he kept the crystal hidden away under his shirt. 

Having the disguise made it so much easier. Humans didn’t look twice at him as he walked through the woods, and they didn’t even consider him at all as he made his way through town. He was one of them. He was _normal_. 

One night was enough to change a few of those things. It was late and dark and Barclay was wandering down the street. He’d used up his free days at the shelter he was living in, thus no longer had a curfew or anywhere to be. The streets were dark, but the air was warm, and Barclay wasn’t too worried about being out in it. 

Maybe he should have been. 

From seemingly nowhere, a blow to the back of the head made pain explode in his skull, made his eyes go white, made his teeth jolt together and his mouth taste like blood. Hands grabbed him. He was on the ground. Someone dragged him across it, scraping him up on the asphalt, and he found himself in an alley. 

He fought against his attackers, kicking and swinging and getting a few good shots in until he found a gun pointed in his face. He froze. There were no guns in Sylvain, but he’d been around long enough to know what they were for. He’d been shot at, hunted. He watched the news. 

They took his wallet, his rucksack, and the shoes off his feet. They broke the cord holding Sylvain around his neck and took that too, and with the barrel of the gun digging into Barclay’s forehead, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. 

He was back to being hungry, starving, and penniless. They didn’t take his bracelet, which was the only mercy in the whole situation. At least he was still human, hiding. 

“Hey,” someone said, when Barclay was still laying on the ground in that alley long after his assailants had run off. He was fine, mostly, a little bloody and beaten, but fine. He’d had worse. “Hey, are you okay? Holy shit, what happened?” 

Footsteps ran towards him, and Barclay found long eyelashes and dark hair and strong hands. “Oh honey,” they said. “Oh my God, what happened to you?” 

The man was nice, kind, and Barclay may have fallen in love with him. He gave Barclay a place to stay and, through the bar he worked in himself, a way to make some money. It was nice, but it wasn’t enough, and when the gate moved again within the year, Barclay left to find it. A phone call proceeded it, a familiar and spine-shivering voice saying, “West Virginia this time,” before hanging up.

Barclay looked it up on a map and packed his bag while his lover was still asleep. He paid for a bus ticket and went about his way, another trip, more wandering, something he was used to. 

New gate, new destination, same old fucking hunger. 


End file.
